


What Being Mended Feels Like

by itsavolcano



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Babies, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Kidfic, Tumblr Prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-10-08 15:24:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10389780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsavolcano/pseuds/itsavolcano
Summary: A collection of domestic!fic Tumblr drabbles based on prompts.Set in the same universe asJust Like the Weasleys, But in Perthshire… And Considerably Fewer KidsfromA Baker's Dozen.8/24/2017:Chapter 11: A Lad's LunchFitz cannotbelieveJemma kicked him out!! —For the afternoon. Luckily, Hunter's free and at the pub. Written for the "Fitz and Hunter get beers" prompt for Team Engineering's The Fitz Wish List.





	1. In the Early Morning, I’ll Find You

**Author's Note:**

> for dilkirani - "206. Why are you giving me such a hard time about this? + fitzsimmons"

It was nearly two in the morning and as he quietly moved down the stairs of their two level cottage, Fitz could hear his wife sniffling in the front room. Her voice, watery with tears, left him wishing wasn’t quite such a heavy sleeper.

“Why are you giving me such a hard time about this?” she whispered, her tone sweet despite the pleading nature of her words. He wasn’t certain when to make his presence known, if his seeing her in such a state would only upset her more. 

From the hallway he could see her cradling their three-day old son to her bare breast, trying to convince him to latch and feed. She looked simultaneously radiant and shattered with a thick blue cardigan she’d nicked from his closet early in her pregnancy wrapped around her shoulders. 

“Your father is such a big eater, I truly don’t understand what the issue is, Henry.” Her quivering voice pulled at his heartstrings. Fitz took that as his cue.

“Someone keeping his mum up?” Startled, Jemma looked over their son’s head, her face immediately puckering with a cry she struggled to swallow down. At her side in an instant, he cupped a hand to the back of her head and gently brushed reassuring kisses against her temple. 

“He won’t eat.” Her eyes filled with tears. “According to the diary I’ve been keeping, as well as all the books I’ve read on newborns, he should be hungry. But we’ve sat here for twenty minutes with no move to latch and I just–Why did I think this was a good idea?”

“You don’t need to breastfeed him, Jemma. We can sort out a different method. Mum was keen to let us know I as a bottle-fed baby and that there’s no shame in it.”

“No, yes. I mean, no.” Her face screwed up in frustration as her words caught on her tongue and so he ran a soothing hand over against her hair, waiting. “I mean this entire baby endeavor. I’m not maternal, Fitz. I’m too… meticulous and… and… scientific.” She spat the word out with such venom that under any other circumstances Fitz would have laughed. But at the moment, he could see the exhaustion crinkling around the edges of her eyes. 

She took a shaky breath. “What if he’s figured out he’s got a rubbish mum?”

Fitz looked down at his son. The baby snuffled and blinked, his eyes still the dark blue usually seen in newborns. Henry looked at ease and alert in his mother’s arms, despite her worry.

“OK, well, I hardly think that’s true,” Fitz commented as he gently scooped Henry from Jemma’s arms, tucking him against his neck and marveling at how the baby’s little bum fit perfectly in his hand. Then, just as gently, he offered Jemma a hand, helping her to feet. 

Pulling Jemma against his side, he wrapped his free arm around her and swayed. She pressed a hand to Henry’s back and Fitz’s heart swelled with love for his little family. Henry’s little mouth curled in a small yawn, his eyes locked on his mother. 

“See? He’s madly in love with you.” Fitz pressed a kiss to her hair. “How could he not be? Takes after his da in that, he does.”

Against him, Jemma trembled. 

“I don’t want to screw this up, Fitz.” She ran her long fingers over the baby’s forehead. “Of all the things we’ve made, he’s the most important.” 

Fitz could only nod in agreement. He understood the sentiment. While Jemma had the comfort of knowing their child was safely growing inside her womb, could feel his steady presence, Fitz had been slowly spinning out. He’d never felt so helpless in all of his life. Instead, he’d been forced to sit back and let the science–let Jemma–do all the work. He’d been ancillary, fetching her strawberry milkshakes, painting the nursery, and offering words of encouragement during labor. 

But now, with his wife at his side and their newborn tucked against him, Fitz felt useful. He felt complete in a way he hadn’t expected. Of course, he’d been excited to become a father–albeit somewhat wary, given his own rubbish excuse of a father. But the moment Henry took his first breath and let out his first cry, Fitz’s love for his son had left him so completely dumbstruck. And his love for Jemma had only grown.

The thought of everything they’d been through–from their first meeting as awkward teenagers, when Jemma Simmons had saved him from a lonely life, to the countless times they’d saved each other at SHIELD before finally retiring from fieldwork–only to end up at this moment, standing in their moonlit living room with their newborn son tucked between them, made Fitz’s eyes sting.

“We’ll inevitably screw up, Jemma,” he whispered, face resting against the top of her head as they continued to sway. “But not horribly. We’re learning, and so is he. And I, for one, am quite glad to be partnered up with the scientific Jemma Simmons on this particular assignment. She does love her homework, that one.” 

He could feel her shaking under his hand and for a moment he panicked, worrying he’d said the wrong thing. But she tipped her head up, laughing. 

“You’re a darling man, do you know that?” She leaned up to kiss him. “How do you always know exactly what I need to hear?”

Just as he was about to offer a reply, Henry let out a heavy sigh as he curled his fingers and smacked his lips.

“You know,” Fitz said with a raised eyebrow, “I think someone might be hungry. Want to give it a go?” 

Jemma slipped the baby down against her breast and a smile played at her lips as he greedily latched on. Then, with a blissful sigh as their son finally nursed, she leaned back against Fitz and he held her.


	2. Early Morning Family Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for anon -- "FS+7. You make a good pillow."

“You make a good pillow,” Ethan snuffled, one cheek pressed to Fitz’s chest and one red-rimmed eye on the cartoons playing on the telly. Warmth bloomed through Fitz at his son’s words and he ran a comforting hand down Ethan’s back, drawing him closer.

“Thanks, buddy.”

Fighting off a chest cold and running a low-grade fever, Ethan had whimpered his way into his parents’ bedroom in the early morning hours, looking for comfort. Fitz had nudged a restless Jemma back to sleep before quickly scooping his son up and pressing his lips to his forehead. Ethan had snuggled against him immediately, his head tucked at his father’s neck and legs bracketed around his waist like a tiny octopus.

The middle child, he was most like his father, more reserved and independent of the three children.—Of course, in Cecilia’s case it was rather difficult to be independent at seven months old, but already Fitz could tell she had a fair amount of her mother’s perseverance and, well, stubbornness. And his eldest son, Henry, was proving to be a handful as he approached the age of six. But Ethan was shy and quiet, just as content to play alone as he was to tag along on his older brother’s various wild adventures.

Fitz loved his children equally, of course he did, but there were moments when he saw himself reflected back in Ethan’s mannerisms or behavior and felt a tug at his heartstrings. He knew Henry, with his tendency to create small explosions or commandeer his father’s cloaking specs, would take the world by storm. And while it was still too early to tell, he suspected the same could be said for Cecilia. But Ethan was the more sensitive of his three children and Fitz knew all too well what it was like to grow up feeling everything so acutely. He also knew how important it was to have a safe place to land, grateful for his own mother’s reassuring embrace. A memory flashed in his mind’s eye—he was eight years old and her cool hands were framing his face as she kissed his cheeks, soothing his tears after a particularly trying afternoon with his father.

Ethan let out a rattling breath, his chest congestion still breaking up, and Fitz snapped back to the present. These days, he seldom thought of his father but now, with his own son nestled in his arms, Fitz wondered what could drive a man to be so callous to his child. He wanted nothing more than to keep his children close, wanted them to always know they had an ally in him. He loved them fiercely and would rip the cosmos apart if someone did them harm.

Right now, however, it seemed the most trying threat to his family was a springtime cold.

The sun was rising, casting a warm glow through the house and Fitz heard footsteps on the stairs as Henry made his way down. Tipping his head back, he caught sight of his bleary-eyed eldest son. Henry’s cheeks were rosy and his eyes red-rimmed as he rubbed at them. It seemed he had caught his brother’s cold.

“I don’t feel so good,” he mumbled, quickly scrambling for Fitz’s empty shoulder. He pulled the boy closer and pressed a kiss to his sweat-damp forehead.

“Ethan and I are watching cartoons. They’re just what the doctor ordered.”

“Ethan’s asleep,” Henry offered and Fitz craned his neck down to get a better look at him. His mouth was dropped open in sleep as his breathing evened out.

“So he is. Well, then, guess it’s just the two of us watching.”

On screen, the coyote set off a small explosion to deter the road runner and Henry giggled. Fitz hoped his son wasn’t getting any more ideas.

“Any room for a couple more?” Behind him, Jemma shuffled into the room, Cecilia in her arms. “Seems the plague has descended upon the FitzSimmons household. The baby has a bit of a fever and a runny nose.”

Fitz winced as they shared a knowing look. It was only a matter of time before he and his wife caught it.

“The more the merrier,” he said as she slid down into the corner of the sofa next to a sleeping Ethan. Despite the cold evidently rippling its way through his family, Fitz couldn’t help but feel content and made a mental note to fix up some pancakes in an hour or so.

His wife focused her attention on the television as the coyote mixed two chemicals together and scorched his fur.

“Well, that’s hardly surprising,” Jemma scoffed and he bit back a chuckle, lolling his head to the side to look at her, well aware of the affection shining in his eyes. She only gave a slight shrug, then, careful to not jostle their children, slipped closer and rested against him. He stretched his neck and pressed a kiss to her temple.


	3. Saturday Night, Mom's Night Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anon -- "253. you're so drunk"

Fitz tip-toed down the steps, mindful of a few squeaky spots in the wood. That he had managed to get all three of his children to bed by nine was nothing short of a small miracle and he wanted to make sure they stayed asleep.

Once downstairs, he went about setting the living room to rights. There were books, blocks, and stuffed animals tossed across the floor. The rug was rolled up and twisted in places and pieces of furniture had been shifted. It seemed his children had basically set off a small bomb in the hours leading up to the small bedtime miracle. Fitz winced at the thought as he scooped handfuls of plastic blocks into their container, thankful he was being hyperbolic about the bomb. But, knowing Henry’s ever evolving curiosity, it was only a matter of time.

With Jemma out all day on a consultation, Fitz had been left to solo parenting duty and while he found wrangling the kids to be easier than, say, designing a multi-billion dollar jet for a secret government agency, he was exhausted. And he missed his wife. 

He was also slightly jealous of her consultation gig. Bobbi and Hunter had popped up with a case (something about a mysterious biohazard they’d retrieved from a diabolical agency) and he and Jemma had flipped a coin to determine who would assist. While their old friends and teammates weren’t being hunted quite as closely as they’d been years ago, they still didn’t come around all that often. Fitz missed them. He missed teasing Bobbi and hanging out with Hunter. Dimly, he hoped Jemma could convince them to stick around for an extra day. Afterall, tomorrow was Sunday—perfect for a roast and veg feast.

Just as he was about to head into the kitchen to load the dishwasher, the sound of scratching at the front door caught his attention. Before he could move, it grew more frantic—as if someone was trying to pick the lock. And then, the door rattled with what seemed like the full weight of a shoulder. Someone was trying to break into his house—while his children slept and his wife was away. 

His heart dropped to his stomach and he scrambled for the ICER and cartridge he stowed in the top shelf of the hall closet. Back pressed to wall near the door, he reached out to turn the deadbolt but before he could, a soft, English voice cried out in barely restrained anger.

“Sodding piece of shite door with bloody metal keys.” That was definitely his wife's voice, although the string of expletives was somewhat unusual.

Brow creased in confusion (and a fair bit of amusement, if he were honest) he disengaged the ICER and yanked open the door only to find Jemma leaning against the frame. Her cheeks were rosy and her eyes shining. She looked… plastered?

“Fitzy!” She lit up with a grin and tipped forward, landing against his chest. He dropped the ICER to the nearby table and caught her at the elbows. “My hero. Saved the day.”

“You are so drunk,” he muttered, a hint of laughter in his voice. “How did this happen?”

“If you think I’m drunk, you should see the other guy,” she giggled, gesturing out to the garden where Hunter was bent over the scrubs, snoring. Fitz cast an eye up to see a stone-sober Bobbi exiting the driver side of an SUV. 

“Believe it or not, Hunter wanted to be a gentleman and walk Jemma to her door,” she called out as she jostled her partner awake and pulled him to his feet. Hunter groaned. “Obviously, he didn’t make it very far.”

“How…?” Fitz stared, dumbstruck.

“A solved case and a friendly wager,” Bobbi offered with a shrug before herding Hunter back to the SUV. Then, shouting over her shoulder, she added, “We’ll call you in the morning.”

“Must you howl—” Hunter protested as she shoved him unceremoniously into the backseat and slammed the door. The windows were too tinted to tell, but Fitz was almost certain his face was pressed to the glass.

“I won,” Jemma giggled, voice muffled by Fitz’s chest before adding, “the wager.” 

He dragged her further into the foyer and bolted the door. Then, with a flourish, she kicked off her shoes, extracted herself from his embrace, and flopped on the overstuffed sofa. Sizing him up with one eye open, she took a breath. Smacked her lips together. 

“You’re probably wondering what a place like me is doing at a girl like this.” She gestured at herself, rather sagely. Goodness, was his wife drunk. 

“You live here.” His hands were on his hips, but he couldn’t keep a straight face.

“Oh.” She blinked. “Right.”

“Want to tell me about this wager?”

“Hmm?” She wrinkled her nose, struggling to focus. He made a mental note to get her a large glass of water and two tablets of paracetamol before bed.

“The one you made with Hunter that resulted in him booting in our bushes.”

“Oh, that.” Jemma waved a dismissive hand. “He said my tolerance had lessened due to motherhood. I told him he obviously didn’t know anything about raising three children under the age of six.” 

Fitz snorted as he crashed down on the empty space next to her. There were several reasons they kept red wine in stock, and most of them were currently sleeping upstairs. 

“So did Hunter pick the poison?”

“Mmm,” she nodded before pulling his arm over her shoulders and slumping against him. “Tequila. The good stuff.”

“Only the good stuff for Jemma Simmons,” he teased, brushing her hair back from her sweaty forehead. 

“And don’t you forget it.” She punctuated each word with a poke at his chest. 

“How’d the case turn out?” 

“I don’t remember,” she mumbled and burrowed closer to him. Then just as suddenly, she bolted upright and made her way to the half bath just off the kitchen hallway, her victory over Hunter apparently short-lived.

“Is now a bad time to mention I was thinking of making Sunday roast tomorrow?” he asked, finding her curled up on the cool tile. 

“Ugh, Fitz.” 

He ran a washcloth under the taps and then gently pressed it to the back of her neck. After a few moments, once she’d sat up, he handed her a glass of water and two tablets.

“Think you can handle this?” 

She both grimaced and glared as she chased the pills with the full glass of water. 

Then, he pulled her to her feet and together they clumsily walked to the stairs leading to the second level. 

“Fitz?” She leaned back against him at an awkward angle and he did his best to keep her upright. Back when they’d been teenagers getting drunk at the Boiler Room, Fitz had learned Jemma Simmons was a clingy drunk. Even then, she’d draped herself all over him. He hadn’t minded then and he certainly didn’t mind now. 

“Hmm?” He pressed a kiss to her hair. 

“You always take care of me.” She wrapped her fingers around his wrist as he held her. 

“Of course, always.” Again, he kissed her, his heart swelling with affection as they entered their bedroom. “It’s my privilege.”

“Even when I’m a mess and it’s my own fault?” He unfastened the snap to her jeans and tugged them down, helping her to do her best to climb out of them. 

“Especially then.” 

She scrambled to the middle of the bed and he tossed the covers over her before setting about his own nightly routine in their master bath. 

“Fitz?” she called out to him. He ducked his head back into the room, confused by the serious crease in her brow.

“I don’t think I’m gonna want pot roast tomorrow.”

He bit back a grin before sliding into the bed, next to her. 

“Ah, well, maybe next week.” 

She was asleep before the words left his mouth.


	4. Held Together by Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for me -- because the image wouldn't leave my brain

During her pregnancy, Jemma worried. She worried something would go wrong before she realized it, or she would eat the wrong thing, or drink too much caffeine, or.... 

On her worst days, she worried she wouldn’t love her child to the full extent he or she deserved to be loved. That she was too pragmatic and wouldn’t be nurturing enough for the life growing inside her. But never once did she worry her husband would be a terrible father. 

In matters of nurture versus nature, she had grown up with caring parents who indulged her every curious whim (within reason) and voiced their praise and love. In fact, only until she entered school did she truly realize just how odd she was compared to her classmates. So, logically, given her own stellar parents, she should have been better prepared to enter motherhood with a full heart, but the worry that she wouldn’t be good enough remained. 

Fitz, she soon realized, was just as full of worry—if not more so. While her own concern for impending parenthood manifested with hands pressed to the underside of her abdomen, seeking out the flutters of movement under her skin as she mentally willed her child to stay in the safety of her womb, Fitz built furniture or painted walls. She knew, as always, building and tinkering soothed him; it gave him something to focus on. 

One particular morning, Jemma woke in a groggy haze and reached across the bed, seeking out his warmth only to find a cold pillow. It was barely after seven—rather early for her husband to be up and at ‘em. She listened for movement in the house and soon heard muttering and light hammering in the nursery across the hall. Eight months pregnant, pulling herself out of the bed was a bit of a struggle, but a moment later she was padding across the hardwood floor. 

She found him on his knees, bent over pieces of the crib he was attempting to assemble. He looked lost in thought, shoulders hunched as he balanced the two pieces and screwed in the support beam. The warmth blooming through her at the sight of her husband building their child’s bed was suddenly lost when she noticed his shoulders shake, heard the ragged exhale of a swallowed sob. 

She crossed the floor to him, carding her fingers through his shaggy curls. The longer hair paired with the cardigans he’d dug out of the back of his closet brought back a bit of a rugged charm, perfect for domestic life in their cottage in Scotland. He jumped at her touch and turned to look over his shoulder before tipping back on his feet. It was impossible for her to move quietly these days, but he must have been too distracted by whatever was buzzing through his mind. Again, she ran her hands through his hair, over his forehead, and he leaned into her touch before abruptly standing. 

“I, uh, I didn’t mean to wake you.” He propped the sides of the crib along the wall, his head tucked down and turned away from her. 

“You didn’t. It’s morning.” She watched him with a cautious eye, trying to read his thoughts as he moved away from her and perched on the window sill. Something was clearly bothering him and in another life, she would have walked on eggshells, gently cajoling him until he smiled or scoffed and his mood lifted. However, neither she nor Fitz were keen to run from confrontation these days—and honestly, there wasn’t anywhere to run  _ to  _ in Perthshire. It was best to barrel forward. 

“Want to tell me what’s wrong?” Well, perhaps not  _ too  _ forward. She was still English, after all. 

He shrugged a shoulder, arms folded over his chest.

“Just needed to finish off the nursery, ‘s all.”  

She tilted her head, knowingly, and he looked away. Working his jaw back and forth as if struggling to find words, his brow furrowed.

“I’ve just been thinking…” he scrubbed a hand over his face before sighing and meeting her eyes. They were red-rimmed and watery with unshed tears. “What if I’m no good. At this.” He gestured to the nursery, to her belly, and she instinctively ran a hand over the swell, felt the baby kick once before doing a somersault.

He slouched further against the window and she waited for him to continue. 

“You had two loving parents. They were supportive and...they were kind and  _ patient _ .” He was curling in on himself with each word, chipping away at Jemma’s heart. 

She frowned, closing the gap between them. “I don’t understand. Do you think you aren’t those things?”

“I think that,” he sighed as she placed a hand on his forearm, “I have a temper. Sometimes a  _ bad  _ temper. I can be cruel and cutting.”

Sadness crashed down around Jemma and she reached up to caress her fingers over his jaw, tipping his face until he met her gaze. The pain and exhaustion—had he slept at all?—she saw reflected back was staggering. 

“You’re hardly ever cruel or cutting. You have a temper, but who doesn’t?” 

He bounced one foot—a gesture he’d had for as long as she’d known him and in that moment, she was reminded of the sixteen-year-old boy shuffling down the halls between their various classes. He’d been so young and shy, easily spooked… The images shifted into place, collapsing together like the colored tiles in a toy kaleidoscope. She stopped short and looked at him again, suddenly aware of what his sleeplessness and anxiety were truly about. 

“You’re going to make a great father.” Framing his face with her hands, she dragged a thumb along the fullness of his trembling bottom lip. “That's never been a concern of mine. Not once.”

They stood together, silent, for a moment. He struggled to met her eyes but when she dropped her hands and stepped back, he tipped forward, seeking out her embrace. Jemma, however, moved two steps over to the chest of drawers he’d painted an off-white at her request. Reaching inside the top drawer, she pulled out a framed photo and returned to his side. 

“I was thinking of putting this over the crib once it’s all set up.” She handed him the photo—a little boy with fair hair snuggled against his smiling mother’s neck, casting a skeptical eye at the camera. It was the photo he’d kept in his nightstand on the SHIELD base. “I framed one of my baby photos, too, but…”

He clutched the frame, eyes locked on the image of his mother. She leaned against him and he wrapped an arm around her without thought, coaxing her closer to elevate some of the strain of standing while heavily pregnant. 

“This,” she continued, gesturing to the photo, “is exactly how I know you’ll be a fantastic father. You were raised by a kind and wonderful woman. She cherished you. Of course, there are other key data points as well, such as waking up to build the crib, fetching strawberry milkshakes at my every whim, and, the most important data point…” She smiled, “Fitz, you're  _ worried  _ about being a good dad. That’s significant. You’re not taking it for granted.”

“So because I’m worried about loving my kid, I’m going to love my kid?” he whispered, voice nearly hoarse. 

“No,” she kissed his cheek, “because you’re worried about loving your kid, you already do.” She watched a shadow of understanding pass over his face just as she also realized what she was saying. After all, hadn’t she just worried about the same thing in regard to being a good mother? The knot in her stomach lessened. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he ran his thumb over the photo. Then, with lips pressed to her hair, he spoke.

“You’re better at this than you seem to think, too, you know.”

“At what?” 

“That was a very nurturing peptalk. But you’ve always known just what to say to calm me down.” He was grinning in full, now, his eyes still a bit bruised but shining with love. 

“Oh, in that case,” she pressed a cheek to his chest, soothed by his heartbeat, “likewise.”

He leaned down to kiss her mouth and all remaining worry churning around them evaporated with the early morning fog.

 

**_Three years later_ **

Watching from the kitchen window while Fitz and Henry played in the back garden, Jemma held Ethan to her breast as he nursed. At five weeks old, he was a mellow and cooperative baby. He didn’t fuss much and was quick to latch when nursing. Henry had taken some coaxing to feed in the early months of his young life but she’d found with patience and Fitz’s strong support, motherhood wasn’t quite as terrifying as she’d anticipated. Oh, sure, it was still terrifying… but not  _ as  _ terrifying. There wasn’t anyone else in the world she wanted to embark on this adventure with than Fitz, and he proved to be an exceptional father.

In the back garden, he and Henry were dissolving sugar cube sculptures in water set at different temperatures. As far as science experiments, it was rather basic but their son  _ was  _ only three. And, much like his father, he had a penchant for sugar in any form. 

The father and son duo were too far away from the opened window for her to hear, but she watched with sudden dread when Henry reached out to touch the pitcher of boiled water before Fitz could snatch it out of his grasp. Hot water sloshed up and splashed his tiny fingers and he jumped, sending the sugar cube tower toppling into the grass. Jemma held her breath, waiting on her son to cry out—either in pain or confusion—but Fitz had anticipated their son’s reaction and propelled forward, dropping the pitcher and scooping Henry up in one fluid motion. 

The boy tucked his head against his father’s neck, no doubt with tears in his eyes. Fitz held up Henry’s little hand for inspection, pressing kisses to the fingertips and coaxing an apprehensive grin from him. Then, seemingly relieved the boy wasn’t harmed, Fitz smiled a wide, reassuring smile of his own. Still a bit wobbly, Henry didn't wiggle from the safety of his father’s embrace, but instead snuggled closer. The pair stood like that for a long moment, Henry apprehensive and Fitz smiling, lovingly. She couldn't look away.

It was a moment so familiar it made Jemma’s breath catch as she wished she had a camera at hand.


	5. Biscuits and Business Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anon -- 2. the way you flirt is shameful

It was relatively quiet in the Fitz-Simmons household. Cecilia was down for her mid-afternoon nap while Henry and Ethan were watching  _ Mulan  _ for the fifteenth time in three days. Lester the cat was even dozing in his favorite spot, next to the heater in the front hall. 

Jemma found the best way to enjoy these moments of peace and household harmony was with a nice cup of tea, and so she made her way to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Dimly, she realized she was down one husband and made a note to check the converted barn in the back garden for her absent-minded professor. Fitz had been picking up a few classes at the university in the next town over and often would spend hours bent over lesson plans as well as various prototypes and projects. She was thrilled he’d found something he enjoyed, and teaching seemed to excite him in ways that reminded her of the boy she met at the Academy. 

Setting the kettle to boil, she peered out the small kitchen window, instantly spotting her husband. To her surprise, however, he wasn’t alone. Instead, he was bent at the waist, leaning down to talk to their elderly neighbor, Colleen Anderson. She was in her eighties and Fitz often kept the hedgerows that divided their property neatly trimmed, even though it technically belonged to the Andersons. In turn, Colleen rewarded Fitz with plates of homemade biscuits and pats to his cheek. It was terribly endearing. 

He must’ve said something particularly charming, as Colleen tipped her head back and laughed with as much uproar as a woman could while leaning on a walking stick. Fitz’s hand shot out to steady her and Jemma was almost certain the woman blushed before waving him off with a smile. He watched to make sure she made it back to her house before turning around and heading to their backdoor. In the meantime, the kettle whistled and Jemma set about making two cups. She hoped Colleen included a few of those raspberry jam biscuits she was rather fond of… 

Tipping in a splash of milk and two spoonfuls of sugar, she didn’t turn around when she heard Fitz enter. 

“Should I be worried?” she asked when he set the plate on the table. She could practically hear his brain spinning as he tried to figure out what she was actually asking. “I saw you out there charming Colleen Anderson. Practically sent her swooning to the ground.” 

“Ah, yes, that,” he said, stepping up to her, arms around her waist. 

“The way you flirt is _shameful_ ,” she teased, eliciting a sharp gasp from him as she wriggled her bum. 

“Yes, well, you know I prefer younger women.” He nipped her earlobe and she laughed. 

“Better watch yourself, Professor.” Again, she punctuated her words with a wiggle and he spun her around before trailing his lips across her cheek and down the column of her throat. 

“Oh, no, you see, my preference is very specific. Three weeks younger — no more, no less.” He pressed his lips at her pulse point. 

“My goodness, that  _ is _ strangely specific.” She leaned back to look at him. He was watching her with a dark, adoring expression and her heart staggered. There were still moments when she could hardly believe this was their life — happy, healthy, and whole, with three beautiful children and a home. She wanted nothing more. He must’ve spotted the shift in her thoughts, the line of his mouth turning serious. But before the playful moment completely evaporated, she stretched on her toes and caught his mouth in a heated kiss. Soon one kiss turned to two, turned to three...

Before they got too far, a rustle in the next room gave them pause.

“Let’s get down to business!” Henry half-sang, half-shouted as he bolted through the kitchen, wielding an imaginary sword while Ethan chased after him in wild glee. The two boys barely noticed their parents as they galloped and neighed around the kitchen island and back into the living room. 

“That’s what I was trying to do,” Fitz mumbled, his cheek pressed against her neck so only she could hear him. She laughed and swatted teasingly at his shoulder before prying him off. 

“Easy, Mister.” She took several steps before casting a playful wink over her shoulder and giving a firm shake of her bum. “Or should I say  _ Professor.”  _

She relished the way his jaw dropped as his eyes locked on her.  _ Still got it, _ she thought before he blinked and grinned, a gleam in his eye. In two strides, he was across the room, his arm wrapped around her waist as he pulled her back against him. 

“The way you flirt, Jemma Simmons,” his brogue was noticeably thicker and he nipped at the juncture where her neck met her shoulder, “is _shameful_.” 


	6. Projectile Motion in Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anon - 258. don't you ever do that again

Jemma Simmons prided herself on being a calm, cool, collected mother. She never resorted to babytalk or spoke to her children as if they were inferior. Instead, she embraced their vibrant, curious minds and enjoyed setting up various kid-friendly experiments, relishing when they took their own ideas and applied the scientific method in order to draw their own conclusions. It warmed her heart.

However, finding her eldest child convincing her middle child to stand on the lowered end of the seesaw in the back garden while he prepared to jump off the tree house ledge and onto the other end was enough to make Jemma rethink the entire motherhood endeavor.

“Henry!” she shouted after her son as he scurried ahead of her into the house. She had Ethan on her hip—he was getting too big to be carried but after the heart-stopping scene she’d just witnessed, she wasn’t quite ready to set him back on the ground. “We do not create catapults with our siblings. I don’t care if you were testing the physics… Don’t you ever do that again.”

In the middle of her shouting, Fitz had appeared, a curious but apprehensive look on his face. Cecilia was babbling contentedly in her playpen, wooden block in hand, and Jemma silently prayed that her daughter would always be an easy baby—that she would be a calming force on her wild elder brother.

“What did he—” he stopped short, wincing. “I don’t want to know, do I?”

“Your son discovered the concept of projectile motion.” She knew she probably looked crazy, but she couldn’t rightly care. “Guess what he was using as the projectile to test his theory?”

“Uhhh,” Fitz hooked a thumb towards Ethan.

“Got it in one.” She hoisted the boy over into his father’s arms and then punctuated her words with kisses to his sweet, sweaty little forehead. “Please, please, please, don’t listen to your brother when he’s making nonsense, OK?”

The boy only nodded solemnly before Fitz turned him around in his arms and pressed noisy, wet kisses to his cheeks until he giggled. Then, he set the three-year-old down in Cecilia's playpen. “Keep your sister company until your mum’s heart rate gets back to normal, yeah?”

Ethan didn’t seem to mind and set about building a tower of blocks for his sister to knock down.

Fitz tugged Jemma across the room, out of earshot, but well within line-of-sight. She gripped her hands around her throat, her pulse still thundering under her fingers. He ran his hands down her arms, offering support while waiting on her to calm down.

“What are we going to do with him?” she whispered. “He’s six. If we keep going down this path I’ll have a head of gray hair before he graduates primary school.”

“OK, well, let’s look at this like we look at any other problem we’ve ever faced.” Fitz continued to run his palms along her arms. It was quite soothing. “What are the facts?”

“Our oldest son is going to put his mother in an early grave.”

“Less hyperbole.” Fitz cut her a look. “He’s curious and adventurous. I can’t fathom where he picked up those traits.”

“Oh, this is all my fault, then, is it? I didn’t try to rocket my siblings to the moon by jumping on a plank of wood.” She flailed an arm out and he caught it, drawing her back in.

“Yes, well, you didn’t have any siblings to begin with so that probably helped.” She scowled at him and he chuckled. “But, to your point, we might consider limiting the amount of Saturday morning cartoons they watch. This is sounding a little too ACME for my liking.”

“Yes, fine. But what are we to do?”

“Well, what did your parents do when you started testing basic chemical reactions and cataloging the internal systems of small creatures?”

“You mean after the initial worry wore off?” She blinked, remembering her own mother’s gritted teeth when she declared she’d like to dissect a frog. Two days later, her father swooped in with a packet of extracurricular courses from the nearby college. “Classes. They signed me up for classes. Why didn’t we think of that sooner?”

“Well,” he shrugged, “we have firsthand experience with how isolating that life is, being the smartest kid in a class of your peers. Taking uni courses for pass-fail would definitely highlight that and set him apart."

He tipped his head down and Jemma remembered the stories of his youth, of a quiet young boy whose penchant for dismantling toaster ovens hadn’t garnered him many friends. Jemma, however, had found his interest in tinkering with appliances rather helpful when they were at the Academy and needed toasted sandwiches after a long night of studying.

“So, we’ll talk to him about maybe channeling his curiosity into a more contained environment… far, far away from here.” She sighed with relief, leaning against Fitz and he hummed in agreement.

“I’ll pick up some pamphlets at campus tomorrow. In the meantime, want me to go talk to him?” He gestured towards the stairs but she shook her head.

“No, I think I should go. I need to go apologize for yelling. Not my finest moment.” She frowned, as her earlier words rushed back over her. Suddenly, she wanted to rush up the stairs and engulf her son in her arms; she wanted to make sure he knew that she loved him no matter what. Her thoughts must’ve played across her face because Fitz pressed a kiss to the corner of her downturned mouth and sent her on her way up the stairs.

“Maybe,” he called after her, “you can tell him about the time eight-year-old Jemma Simmons set off an explosion so loud the police and fire brigade were dispatched.”

Halfway up, she stopped and leaned back down. “I thought we weren’t giving him any more ideas?”

“Excellent point,” Fitz grimaced and she turned back up the stairs, on a mission to cuddle her son.


	7. Overcooked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anon -- 5. You can’t even look at me and 11. Why are you pushing me away

“Jemma?” Fitz crossed over the threshold into their bedroom in quick but gentle strides. His wife was currently perched on the end of their bed, snuffling and hiccuping through what appeared to be the last dredges of a proper cry. His heart dropped, unsure of what happened — and certain in the knowledge that, given the fact it was the  _ forty-first _ week of her pregnancy, it could be anything. 

Just yesterday, Lester the cat had coughed up a hairball and Jemma cried, worried they were neglecting him and he was acting out. He knew (and she also knew) that Lester coughed up hairballs like clockwork, his own passive-aggressive protest to sharing the space with two heavy-footed humans. He was definitely in for a rude awakening when the baby became mobile and grabby.

“Nothing,” she mumbled, wiping at the tear tracks with the backs of her hands. She ducked her head away, but he stooped down, trying to catch her line of sight. 

“What, you can’t even look at me now?” he chided, trying to be playful, but her face puckered immediately. He swooped in, engulfing her in a hug as best as he could. “Hey, now, hey. What’s this about?”

She shook her head, unable to get the words out, and then, gesturing at her abdomen, managed to wail, “I’m  _ huge _ .”

“Jemma, you’re pregnant.” 

“Yes, thank you very much for that news bulletin,  _ Leo _ .” She pulled herself out of his arms and up from the bed before shooting him an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that, Fitz. I know I’m pregnant — I’m very,  _ very _ pregnant. This baby is stubborn — or brilliant, and knows he has exactly everything he needs, right where he is.”

“He’ll come in his own time, no doubt about it,” Fitz tried his best to reassure her as she paced the length of their bedroom, wearing out the new rug. Her hands were pressed to the small of her back, fingers curling at the tension there.

“Oh, I know he will. Probably like that scene from that sci-fi film — you know, the one Hunter replaced my birthing DVD with.” 

“ _ Alien _ ?” He winced at the memory. So much blood and gore. And then they’d watched the birthing video, too. Fitz had lost his appetite for the rest of the day.

“Yes, that. Where the guy’s torso bursts open. Something just like that.” She frowned, digging her thumbs into the tops of her hip bones, mind back on her current situation. “I swear, Fitz, this baby is  _ never coming out.  _ And I can’t say I blame him. Maybe he knows we aren’t ready.” 

“We’re as ready as we’ll ever be, Jemma.” He could only watch her, aware that she needed to move, needed to get her frustrations out, and that his pacing with her would only be a hinderance. “We’ve painted the nursery, hung the frames, did the wash…”

“No, not that. I know we’re  _ prepared,  _ Fitz, but are we  _ prepared? _ ” She stopped and looked at him, exhaustion and worry marring her features. His confusion must have been evident because she continued, “We have little outfits folded and tucked in drawers, yes. But what about all the other stuff? What about when he’s kept us up until the early morning, crying for no obvious reason? Or when he comes home from school, broken hearted because someone was mean to him? When he takes his driving test or goes off to university — What if he hate science and studies  _ Russian literature?” _

No longer able to sit still as his wife spiraled out, Fitz jumped to his feet and reached for her. She leaned into him and let out a sigh as he pressed the flat of his palm to the trouble spots in her lower back and ran his other hand over her belly. Their son shifted under his father’s caress. 

“Where’s all this coming from?” 

“I think it’s fairly obvious, Fitz,” she mumbled, cheek pressed against his soft t-shirt. “I’m about to drop this baby any moment and I’m panicking.”

He chuckled and kissed the top of her head. 

“Well, I’m rather confident we’ll be excellent parents.” 

“Oh?” She tipped her head back to look up at him. 

“Hmm, weren’t you the one who told me if you’re worried about being a good parent, it’s a good sign?” He pulled her closer, as best as he could.

“Sneaky move there, using my own brilliance against me.” 

“Well, you made a good point.” Again, he kissed her, his hands firmly pressed against her back. “And, to be honest, Jemma, regardless of what happens — when he keeps us up all night, comes home with a broken heart, drives off to university where he dissects  Dostoyevsky instead of a cat’s liver — we’ll do what we always do.” 

“And what’s that, then?” She moved back to look at him and he shrugged.  

“We’ll figure it out together.” 

Jemma beamed at him before pressing her mouth to his in a soft kiss. Then, just as quickly, she moved back, keeping him at arm’s length. Concern flooded Fitz’s system.

“What — why are you pushing me away? What’s happening?” 

“You’re too hot — body heat. Too much. Sweaty and sticky and — ” Her expression changed from trepidation to surprise before settling on a look of confidence. She met his eye with a level of assuredness he’d grown accustomed to since their early days of working together. “My go bag is already in the car. We need my medical files from the kitchen table and my pillow, and to feed the cat… and…”

She wavered, distracted. Fitz took the time to process and regroup, hands frozen mid-air. 

“Is this your way of telling me you’re in labor?”

“Yes, yes. It seems our son likes a good rallying pep talk as much as the two of us.” She turned for the hallway and he stared after her, jaw dropped. As if sensing he wasn’t following after her, she turned and waved her hand at him, the corner of her mouth turning up in a sweet smile. “C’mon, Dad, we’ve waited long enough, don’t you agree?”

Grinning, he jumped into action, ready to meet his son. 


	8. Hot for Teacher

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is shamelessly self-indulgent fluff

Henry loved his science workshop—he was learning the basic principles of mechanics (the key principle being do not use your little brother in experiments) and Jemma loved seeing her son so captivated. The workshops on campus were designed for young students, but Henry was by far the youngest. It had taken some effort to convince the dean, but given both Fitz and Jemma’s past education track as well as Fitz’s impactful presence as a visiting professor, he soon agreed to let Henry participate in the program—as long as one of of his parents were on campus.

Since Fitz had back-to-back classes on Thursdays, Jemma (as well as Ethan and Cecilia) spent the mid-morning on campus and typically met up with Fitz for a picnic lunch if the weather permitted. Today, however, was a review session for the upcoming midterm, and so Fitz’s schedule was a bit more packed and he was running behind. Henry was still in his workshop for another hour, while Ethan and Cecilia were napping at the on-campus nursery. With all three of her children otherwise occupied, Jemma had decided to go watch her husband in action, teaching the next generation of brilliant minds. 

Peering through the small window in the door, she spotted Fitz down front, fingers curled in the air as he recapped the core theories of physics for his entry-level course. His shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows and his curls were haphazardly sticking up in places, leaving her to assume he’d run his hand through his hair a few times—something he always did when fully distracted and delving into a point of interest. He adjusted the black frame glasses he’d taken to wearing after recent years of writing on the whiteboard and Jemma bit back a grin. He looked like a teen movie dream—the hot, absent-minded, but brilliant professor. Or, perhaps, Jemma wondered, she was a bit biased.

Warmth flooded her at the sight. Fitz seemed to be in his element, animatedly answering various questions. Years ago, after they changed their status at SHIELD from full-time to consultant, longing to get away from constant threats of danger, Fitz had struggled to reconcile creating technology with the possibility of said technology being misused or corrupted. For nearly a year, he had stopped building, altogether. In turn, Jemma had worried about his loss of interest since he’d spent more than half of his life studying and then creating various life-changing devices. To just abandon a component of what made Fitz _Fitz_ seemed drastic, but she understood the compulsion. 

And so, as they settled into their domestic life, built a home and had children, Fitz channelled his passion into academic writing, presentations, and teaching. Since he could no longer _do_ , he taught. And he was brilliant at it—he made difficult, dense texts and theories accessible for his students. In turn, they scored high marks on their exams and left equally high reviews at the end of each session. Jemma was so pleased her husband had found a new outlet for his brilliant brain. He even enjoyed grading, the daft man. 

Sneaking into the back of the lecture hall, Jemma slipped down into an empty seat, wincing when her knee cracked against the metal hinge of the desk. Two young girls whipped their heads around at her, giving her a reproachful glare but she paid them little mind. For the most part, his students all seemed to be paying attention—one kid in the farthest corner was fast asleep, head propped against the wall but that was to be expected. Not everyone found the topic to be as captivating as her husband.

“OK, well, as Nate has pointed out, we’ve spent the last twenty minutes going over quantum theory, but have yet to go over anything prior to modern physics. Since we spent weeks on classic theories, it’s a good assumption that those will _also_ be on your midterm.”

A dull groan and shuffling of papers rippled through the crowd and Fitz rolled his head back, mimicking their displeasure. 

“C’mon, that shouldn’t be a surprise.” He turned away and went about flipping through the thick folio Jemma knew contained his lecture notes. 

“You know what _is_ a surprise?” one of the girls who’d glared at Jemma leaned over to her friend, her voice syrupy with false sweetness. 

“A hot science prof in this department?” Her friend winked, suggestively. Behind them, Jemma’s jaw dropped. She’d met the other members of the department and while she agreed, it was hardly appropriate to ogle a professor—and a _married_ professor at that. Of course, Jemma herself had only just leered at him but that was different—he was _her_ married professor.

“In _deed_.” The other girl snapped her gum in her teeth and Jemma felt her glare narrow. “Too bad he’s got a ring on.” 

“Oh, I bet the missus is a real cow. Probably looks forward to coming here just to escape the harpy.” 

Jemma didn’t realize she’d actually let out an indignant squeak until the duo turned around and sized her up once more. She glared right back.

“What do you know that you aren’t sharin’?” The friend followed up once they turned back around, unaffected, but the girl only shrugged a shoulder and doodled in the margin of her notebook. Jemma knew it was just idle chatter among students, but it annoyed her just the same. Judging by the extensive drawings in their notebooks, they’d be better off paying attention to the lectures rather than the glint of Fitz’s wedding band.

Jemma scowled at the back of their heads for a moment longer before turning her attention back to Fitz’s presentation but still her mind was reeling with the audacity of these two girls… just to assume….

“Who can tell me Newton’s laws of motion?” Fitz called out and a smattering of hands went up. Still distracted, Jemma raised her hand. 

“Who should, I pick... Collins, you answered the last question. Trevor's asleep, so he's of no use. Hmm. Ah, yes, you—” Fitz stopped, snapping her attention back to the present. He was looking at her with a mix of surprise and amusement. “There, in the back. I know for a _fact_ you know the answer but, please, tell the class.” 

Surprised and blushing, Jemma retracted her arm.

“Oh, no, perhaps it would be better if one of the students answered.” 

“You raised your hand, ready to answer. Never could let a question go, now, could you?” She could tell he was laughing at her, even at this distance. 

“Ugh, Fitz, honestly,” she scoffed and this time he grinned before motioning for Jemma to join him down front. 

“Perhaps this review session will go quicker if you have two instructors, as I’m just now realizing I’m late for a lunch date with my wife.” 

Once she reached the last step he greeted her with a small, sweet smile before turning back to the class. 

“This is Dr. Simmons. Her specialization is biochemistry and keeping me in line.”

An interested rustle carried through the hall as some students began to realize just who this _Dr. Simmons_ might be. 

“Ah, good, I’m glad you’re finally admitting that—and in front of a hundred students, no less.”

“I’ll take all the witnesses I can get.” He gave her a wink before pausing, a hint of a panic in his eye. “Where are the children?” 

“Oh, you know, playing with matches, probably.” She cut him an fond look and he shifted from worried to sheepish. “Henry’s at his workshop course and the babies are sleeping.” 

“Well, we definitely would’ve heard Lachlan Hall explode if they’d let Henry near the matches.” 

“Hmm, when I left they were discussing the principles of mechanics. He seemed enthralled.” Jemma stepped closer to her husband and they paid no mind to the fact they were at the front of an auditorium of stressed and sleepy students.

“I have no doubt, after that catapult incident,” Fitz murmured low enough for only Jemma to hear before turning back to his class. “But what a coincidence—that’s what we’re about to review. Perhaps we should have our six-year-old lead the session?”

“How many Fitz-Simmons does it take to teach your course, exactly?” she asked and he huffed. “Should I go get our seven-month old?” 

“Nah, Cecilia's more of an expert in diffeomorphism covariance,” Fitz rolled his eyes in an exaggerated fashion and Jemma had to bite back a laugh.

“That does sound like her, yes.” She watched him for a beat as he sat, one hip on the desk, making no move for his notes. “Fitz?”

“Hmm?” 

“I’m sure your students would much prefer to review what they need to know for the exam rather than watch you flirt with your wife.” She grinned at the indignant little scoff he let out as a hint of pink colored his cheeks. Jumping to his feet, he flipped through his folio, grumbling. 

“It’s hardly my fault, is it, Jemma? Come in here being all…”

“What?”

“ _You_ ,” he muttered with affection.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Dr. Fitz,” she teased and a hint of something heated flickered in his expression when he glanced up. Jemma was glad for the considerable distance between the front of the room and the first row of students—it was not an appropriate look for an instructor to have in an auditorium full of his students. Deciding she should probably get the exam review back on track, if for no other reason than to put said students out of their misery, she reached over and plucked up the first page she could reach from the top of his folio. “Newton’s laws of motion.”

“Yes!” Fitz turned, scrambling to uncap a dry-erase marker. “Yes, right… laws of motion.” 

He quickly rebounded the review session, and with Jemma’s help went over various points regarding classic theories surrounding physics. Together, they linked the early theories to the more modern theories and expanded on them with examples and diagrams drawn on the whiteboard. Collaborating with Fitz again, discussing points of interest at length was a heady rush, reminding Jemma of their time spent in various labs and classrooms. Casting a glance around the room, the students also seemed interested in the topic—even the two girls in the back of the room. 

They continued on until Jemma’s mobile phone buzzed with an alarm, alerting her it was almost time to pick Henry up from his workshop. Fitz took it as the perfect time to end the review session and dismissed everyone with a good-natured comment about avoiding too much alcohol the night before the exam. 

“Remember what we just talked about regarding Newton’s third law of motion,” he called after them as they shoved notebooks and folders into book bags, “for every action there is an opposite and equal reaction. So avoid too many tequila slammers!” 

“You’re quite the nerd, Dr. Fitz, using Newton to dissuade your students from imbibing too much,” she chuckled as she scooped up his folio and he fetched his suit jacket from the back of the nearby chair. “You know, I think I should buy you a tweed jacket with elbow patches, like a proper stuffy prof of old.”

Watching her with amusement, he rolled his sleeves down and slipped on the jacket. “Are you calling me nerdy, stuffy and old?”

“Oh, no, never. I quite like the look.” She kissed him softly. “It has come to my recent attention that I’ve always wanted to snog a prof.” 

“Oh, really,” he leaned down to brush his lips to hers but pulled back, brow creased in thought, “wait, a tick— _who_?”

“ _Fitz_ ,” she laughed, pulling him down to meet her for a proper kiss until her mobile buzzed again with an alert that not only was Henry out of class, but Ethan and Cecilia were both awake. Grabbing Fitz’s hand, she tugged him out of the auditorium and over to Lachlan Hall.

Even though they were running late—and Jemma Simmons was _never_ late—she’d never felt more happy and content, with the man she loved holding her hand as they quickly strolled through the campus green, their children waiting on the other side and a family picnic soon to follow. 


	9. Meeting the Parents in Snapshots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> amazingjemma requested: fitzsimmons meeting each the parents. it took me longer to write this one because it 1. got away from me (as you'll see) and 2. i kept getting distracted by the stupid angst on the show. hope this is what you were looking for!

**_Simmons Meets Helena Fitz_ **

Fitz cut the wheel of the rental car to the left, turning through the small shopping center in the middle of town, and Simmons gasped. He fought against the natural reflex that wanted to slam on the breaks as he scanned the surroundings with wide eyes. He saw nothing out of the ordinary, but apparently something had caught her attention.

“Oh, those people look rather dashing, don’t you agree? That woman’s coat is quite lovely. I, personally, would never have picked something quite so mauve, but she pulls it off rather well.” Simmons paused only long enough to take a breath before continuing to observe the passers-by heading for a dimly lit restaurant. “Do you think they’re going on a date? Not that, of course, a man and a woman out together constitutes a date — ”

“Why are you nervous? You have nothing to be nervous about,” he reassured, casting an eye over to where she sat in the passenger seat. 

To all outwards appearances, Simmons seemed cool and collected, but he’d known her long enough to recognize the signs — the white knuckle grip on the bouquet she’d insisted on picking up for his mum, the incessant chatter about anything and everything she spotted out the window, not to mention the way she was pulling at her lower lip with her teeth…

He indicated and turned onto his mum’s street. They had a couple weeks off for holiday from the Academy and for reasons he didn’t quite understand, she’d agreed to visit his mum for a few days. Helena Fitz had been surprised but pleased when he called to tell her he was bringing a guest. Fitz, of course, had agreed to return the favor and visit Simmons’ parents, too. All in the name of politeness, of course. Dimly, his stomach churned with butterflies of his own, but he pushed the feeling aside. He had enough on his mind at the moment — there would be time later to worry about meeting Charles and Meredith Simmons. 

Next to him, Simmons let out an offended huff but Fitz wasn’t deterred. 

If anyone should be nervous about his mum and Simmons meeting, it was Fitz. Growing up, he had never brought a friend home — and he most  _ definitely  _ had never brought a  _ girl  _ friend home… wait, no, not like that. A girl. A friend who happened to be a girl. Well, woman, really. Simmons would scoff if he called her a girl. She was a  _ woman _ . ...His brain buzzed for a brief moment, foot slipping off the pedal for a second before he came back to his senses. Best not to mention any of this to Simmons. Licking his dry lips, he turned his focus back to her, suddenly aware she’d been speaking. 

“ — Honestly, Fitz, I’m  _ not _ nervous. What makes you think  _ that _ , of all things?” 

He blinked once, twice, forcing his thoughts to focus. 

“Your foot, for starters,” he offered, tipping his head over to where her right foot bounced lightly, toes never leaving the floorboard. Without comment, she stopped the movement. 

“That doesn’t mean anything.” She looked away.

“It’s a classic symptom.” 

“Oh, honestly, you’re one to talk.” She glared, but the relief Fitz found in the gesture was quickly snuffed out and replaced with indignation by her next comment. “You shift around like your trousers are on fire when you’re even remotely anxious.”

“I do  _ not _ .” He knew his jaw was practically to his chest, but of all the absurd things… He turned the car into the drive, shut off the engine, and pulled the parking brake with more effort than strictly necessary. 

“And there’s the whole way you scratch and tug at your ear… Besides, I can hardly see why I  _ shouldn’t _ be nervous meeting your mum.” Simmons tossed off her seat belt and managed to gracefully slip out of the car, all the while still shouting at him. Through it all, she continued, her body moving on instinct, seemingly unaware they were now parked in front of the house. Or that his mother had stepped out into the garden. “Why is it so absurd that I should want her to  _ like  _ me?”

“Oh, how could I possibly not, dear?” His mum’s sweet, soothing voice held an edge of amusement.

Stunned and embarrassed, Simmons clamped her mouth shut and turned. But before she could squeak out some sort of apology or comment, Helena stepped forward, arms open wide. Fitz swallowed a laugh at the way Simmons wordlessly held the strangled bouquet out in front of her. His mother stopped. “Those are for me? How lovely.”

And then, instantly, she enveloped Simmons into a tight hug — Fitz knew from experience his mum gave the best hugs. 

“Leo, bring the bags in would you? Jemma and I have loads to catch up on and a pot of tea waiting.” Helena slipped her arm around Simmons and guided her to the front door. 

“Hasn’t seen me in seven months but sure, start in on the chores already. Not even a kiss on the cheek. Not even a ‘it’s good to see you, son.’ I see how it is,” he grumbled good-naturedly, too warmed by the sight of his two favorite people wrapped up in each other. 

Simmons shot him a bewildered but pleased look over his mother’s shoulder and a feeling he couldn’t sort out ran through him as she tucked a fallen strand of hair behind her ear. Fitz tried not to think about what the soft blush on her cheeks could possibly mean and set about unloading their cases from the boot of the car.

 

**_Fitz Meets Charles and Meredith Simmons_ **

Simmons felt carefree — she hadn’t been home in nearly a year and she was excited to see her parents. But not only that, she was excited for her parents to meet her best friend. 

Making friends for Jemma Simmons had never been easy — according to Alicia Merton, who, one day when the six year olds were playing in a nearby park, declared she was a know-it-all. Which Simmons had found absurd considering it was impossible to know  _ everything _ — knowledge was infinite. It didn’t matter of course, and the application of such logic had only made Alicia more vicious. Soon, the snobby girl had convinced the other schoolkids Jemma Simmons was  _ persona non grata  _ and playdates rapidly dried up.  _ The girl with the curl in the middle of her forehead.  _

But, surely, Alicia Merton hadn’t completed her second doctorate before the age of seventeen, she thought with smug satisfaction. Besides, Simmons was more than content with the path her life had taken—well, the path _she had_ _selected_. To think otherwise implied a lack of causality and such talk wasn't scientifically founded.

It was a path she had set out on at the Academy, when she found Leo Fitz to be absolutely fascinating. He’d been awkward and grumpy — had utterly  _ loathed _ her, but she’d managed to wear him down. She thought him brilliant and believed them to be well matched science partners. That it had translated to the best friendship she’d ever had was a delightful, welcomed bonus. 

“Isn’t this exciting?” She turned to Fitz as they stood outside the Italian restaurant, waiting on her parents to arrive. He winced and groaned when she gave him a playful slap, unable to keep her joy from bubbling over. 

“We’re fifteen minutes early, Simmons.” Giving her the eye, he rubbed dramatically at his arm. “ _ Why _ are we fifteen minutes early?”

“Because my parents are  _ punctual  _ people, Fitz.” She did her best to keep from crossing her arms over her chest — she refused to take the bait. “And I haven’t seen them in months.” 

“Yes, but we do have a reservation, right? I’m assuming the parents of Hermione Granger make reservations?”

She gave a sharp scoff — unsure which comment to tackle first.

“Yes, of course! Charles and Meredith Simmons do not play such scheduling games. And if I’m Hermione, then you’re definitely Ron — always whinging when you’re hungry. Honestly.” 

He blinked at her owlishly, but she couldn’t fathom why. Other than his blood sugar nose-diving. 

“So, uh,” he tugged at his ear, “anything in particular I should know about your family? Any topics to avoid?”

“Hmm, Mum hates to discuss her cousins but I hardly see how that’ll come up in conversation.” Simmons tapped her bottom lip. “Dad, I’m sure, would be happy to chat on about his research surrounding Vienna prior to the Great War, but I, frankly, have heard enough on the topic. Or, he’ll go on and on about the dessert menu — has quite the sweet tooth.” 

Before she could continue, a cab pulled up to the corner and her parents spilled out in the middle of a rather domestic chat. Judging by the topic of their conversation — and the volume — they hadn’t realized she and Fitz were waiting near the entrance.

“Mere, darling girl, is there any topic to avoid? Did Jemma give you an itemized list of things I  _ shouldn't  _ discuss?” Charles adjusted the tail of his suit jacket. To her left, Fitz snorted back a laugh and she shot him a glare. 

“Gustav Klimt,” Meredith drawled, rolling her eyes, “and his bloody paintings.” 

“Come now, Jems and I discuss art all the time. I was wondering more along the lines of her relationship with this fellow. Seems to be serious if she’s bringing him to dinner.” 

Doing her best to not look at Fitz while also praying for the ground to open up and swallow her whole, Simmons felt her cheeks flush a deep red. Of all the absurd ideas for her father to get in his head… Next to her, she felt Fitz shuffle on his feet, hands deep in his pockets. 

“They’re friends, Charlie.” Meredith paused, considering. “Or that’s what she says.” 

Unable to take it any longer, Simmons took a step directly in their line of sight. 

“Why hello!” she shouted with more volume than necessary. “Imagine seeing you here!”

His face breaking out in a wide grin, her father took a long stride and engulfed her in his arms. Lifting her up from the ground, he gave her a playful swing before setting her back down.

“So good to see you, love,” her father added with a kiss to the cheek. Turning, she saw her mother had already introduced herself to Fitz, who was now watching her exchange with her father with an interest she couldn’t quite name. 

“They’re always like this, I’m afraid,” her mother offered. “She had him wrapped around her little finger from the day she entered the world.” 

“Ah, well, that’s good. That’s… important,” Fitz started as if searching for the right thing to say. “I’m not at all surprised. Sim — er, Jemma can be very persuasive. Found that out myself.” 

She tried to ignore the curious look her mother was giving Fitz. 

“Yes, persuasive, that’s it.” Simmons grasped for something to puncture the heaviness of the moment. “I followed him around campus for weeks, doodling project ideas on the margins of his notebook until he finally gave in.” 

Her father tossed his head back with a laugh. 

“That sounds just like my girl.” Her father clapped Fitz on his back, good-naturedly, and Simmons cringed as he rocked forward. “Now, we best head in before we miss our reservation. Fitz! Did Jemma tell you about the dessert menu? You can’t go wrong with a single thing…” 

And just like that, her parents had Fitz sandwiched between them, guiding him into the restaurant. It was quite a strange feeling, Simmons thought, seeing the people she held so dear all huddled together. Before she was fully swept under a tide of sentiment, Fitz turned back and waited for her to catch up.   
  


**_Helena Fitz Meets Charles and Meredith Simmons…_ **

“How have they never met before?” she practically groaned, her face buried in her hands. “And how has it never come up before?”

“Well, Jemma, we’ve barely had time to visit our respective parents, individually. I don’t think it’s exactly surprising.” He reached out for her, running his thumbs in soothing circles on her wrists. Then, against his better judgement, he added with a wince, “And frankly I thought they already met ages ago.”

It was two days before their wedding, and Fitz and Jemma were hiding in the kitchen under the guise of preparing tea for their parents. The silence in the front room was deafening. When his mother arrived, she’d greeted Charles and Meredith with politeness. And they’d, in turn, seemed cordial. But somehow — _ somehow _ — there was an iciness between them that he couldn’t quite figure out. Perhaps Jemma was right and it was resentment over the fact that their children had been friends (more than that, obviously) for over a decade but had never seen fit to introduce their families. 

She dropped her hands and glared. “It seems unfair that they meet  _ the day before our dress rehearsal.” _

“I can’t exactly build a time machine, Jemma. And if I could, our parents meeting sometime in the last twelve years wouldn’t be my first choice.” He ducked his head out into the hallway, straining to hear any chatter, but the frosty atmosphere remained. Behind him, Jemma set about boiling and slamming through cupboards for a serving tray.

“I have faith that you can do whatever you put your big, beautiful brain to, but I see your point.” Then, tossing a half-eaten packet of biscuits onto the counter, she wailed, “What are we going to do? We can’t start our married life together with our parents  _ hating  _ each other!”

“Jemma,” he turned back to her, the corner of his mouth ticked up in a small smile, and tried to sound reassuring, “people get married all the time with in-laws who hate each other.”

“ _ Fitz _ .” Again, she glared, her arms held overhead as she stretched for the fancy tea service she’d bought on a whim. Chagrined, he quickly moved across the room to help her fetch down the china set.

Soon, the kettle whistled and Jemma set about preparing tea and spreading biscuits out on a plate. Fitz watched as she took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. For a moment, he was transported back in time, to when a young Jemma Simmons had walked up to him, standing tall and proud, to tell him that she thought he was quite possibly just as smart as she was and if they combined their intelligence, then they could surely ace their paired assignment. From that moment on, she’d been by his side — as his friend, partner. As his love. His heart was so full of her. He couldn’t hide his smile and she snapped him from his reverie with a quick elbow to his side. 

“C’mon, then,” she held up the tea tray, “get the door would you?”

Moments later, they were all sitting awkwardly in the front room as their mothers sipped tea and Jemma’s father scowled. He’d never seen the man in a bad mood before and it was rather off-putting. Digging around in his brain for a suitable conversation starter, Fitz started to speak and stopped three times before his mother turned to Jemma.

“So, dear,” Helena smiled sweetly — too sweetly, if Fitz were being honest. “What are your plans once the baby comes?”

Fitz splashed hot tea into his lap and next to him Jemma stifled a gasp. 

“I — I’m not pregnant.” She glanced at Fitz, blushing and bewildered. 

“Oh, well, no. Not at the moment, but eventually, of course. I do hope for grandchildren. Any mother would.” 

“Mum — ” Fitz started. She had never been the type to badger about such topics. 

“Not  _ every _ mother,” Meredith piped up over the rim of her tea cup and Jemma’s head turned. 

“What?”

“I’m just saying, not every mother expects nor wants grandchildren.” She paused to take a sip, eyes locked on her daughter. “Your career is important — not only to you, personally, but to your field. I won’t support the idea of you being forced to put your career on hold — ”

Jemma shot him a look and he scrambled for something to say. How  _ in the hell _ had their day devolved into this mess?

“Uh,” Fitz interrupted, “I, actually, plan on staying at home with the children.” His voice cracked on the last word, the tips of his ears tinged pink. 

“And leave my daughter to support you?” Charles boomed from the corner chair and Jemma gasped once more. 

“Dad!” 

“Just what are you implying about my son, Dr. Simmons?” Helena sat up straight and a pang of dread slipped down Fitz’s spine.  _ What the hell was happening? _

“Oh, just that I find it rather informative that your son is so quick to let my daughter work all kinds of hours while he stays in the comfort of the home…” 

“Yes, and I find it rather interesting,” Meredith started, eyes fixed on her tea, “that our children are apparently geniuses, and yet a little dim.” 

Fitz’s jaw dropped as he looked between the three parents. Next to him, Jemma frowned, concentrating. A moment later, their stern faces melted into grins and giggles.

Before he was even aware of his actions, Fitz bolted to his feet, hands held up. “ _ What in the hell _ — _ ” _

_ “ _ Oh, don't use that tone,” his mother scolded while Jemma tugged him back down to the sofa.

“We're merely having a bit of fun, son,” Charles said, his amusement evident before turning to Helena with a friendly wink. “You were quite right, they bought the bristle with the bushel.”

“ _ Mum _ ?!” Fitz turned with wide eyes but she only shrugged and nibbled a biscuit. 

“Oh, come now, Leo, did you honestly think, in all the years you and Jemma have been thick as thieves, the three of us never spoke?” 

“But… you never said?” Jemma interjected, still slightly stunned. 

“Yes, well, where’s the fun in that?”

“You mean you’ve had a… clandestine friendship for nearly a decade?”

“Oh, no, dear. It wasn’t until you were were away, traveling, that we really started to speak regularly,” Meredith offered. 

“Especially after your accident…” Helena trailed off and he gripped his left hand. Their parents knew they worked for a government agency but weren't ware of the full extent, of course. His coma and subsequent recovery had been classified as “injury in the line of duty,” which wasn’t untrue, but he still felt a twinge of guilt for keeping the extent of it from his mother.

“Well, I'm glad you had someone to talk to.” He meant it. “I just wish you'd thought to clue us in sooner.”

“It was hardly our job, now was it?” She asked, pointedly and he could only sigh at her change in tone.

Soon, their parents were giggling amongst themselves about having tricked their children for so long — and for pulling one over on them that afternoon. Fitz stifled a smile, a warm feeling of contentment rushing through him as he watched his family take shape.

Jemma leaned against his arm. 

“It's embarrassing, really,” she whispered.

“Hmm?” He looked down at her.

“We're  _ spies, _ Fitz. And we missed the biggest operation right under our noses for  _ years.”  _

He snickered and pulled her close before pressing a kiss to her temple, too content to care about their parents’ long con. 

“Look at the bright side — they'd make great assets in the field if the need came up. That grandchildren bit was inventive.”

This time it was Jemma's turn to snicker but not before pinching his side. Before he could protest, Meredith and Helena swept her off to try on her wedding gown along with the tartan sash his mum had brought. Watching Jemma beam as they bundled her off to the bedrooms, Fitz couldn't help the swirl of emotions rolling through his head.  _ They were going to be married.  _ He suddenly felt overwhelmed, but in the best possible way. 

As if sensing the shift in his mood, Charles poured him two fingers of whisky and together they waited for the women to return.

 

**_The Grandparents Meet Henry Fitz-Simmons_ **

Jemma was sore, groggy and, despite the brief sleep she’d managed, still exhausted. Of course, that was all to be expected given the fact she had spent eighteen hours in labor with her first child.

Dazed, she cracked an eye open and surveyed the dimly lit hospital room. Her mother sat next to her, reading glasses perched on her nose, a crossword and pen in hand. Spotting the empty bassinet, Jemma woke fully with a surge of panic.

“Where’s Henry?”

Meredith nodded her head across the room and Jemma turned to spot Helena gently rocking the newborn in her arms.

“Right here, love,” she whispered, eyes never leaving the baby’s sleeping face, “and he’s beautiful.”

“Mmm, he is quite, isn’t he?” Jemma could only agree, her heart practically bursting with love and affection. Then, suddenly noting a particular absence, she looked between the newly minted grandmothers. “Where’s Fitz?”

“Oh, Charlie took Leo for a celebratory pint.” Meredith chuckled. “The lad was practically beside himself, buzzing around and around. It was either a lager or Helena was going to call a nurse for a sedative.”

“Well, Fitz will need all the sleep he can get. I’m sure he would have welcomed the—”

“It wasn’t for  _ him _ ,” Helena replied archly and Jemma could barely bite back a giggle, still too sore for all out laughter. After a couple more minutes, her mother-in-law leaned over to place a sleeping Henry in her arms and Jemma felt a rush of love (and the overwhelming threat of tears) as she took in the sweet, small bundle of a baby boy. Helena softly sighed. “He looks just like his da, he does.”

Jemma only hummed in agreement. Outside the hospital room door, she could hear the off-key voices of men singing a jaunty song and a nurse shushing them. Seconds later, Fitz and her father stumbled in, managing to trip over nothing on the linoleum.

“Jemma,” Fitz whisper-shouted, eyes bright with affection and alcohol as he shook away Charlie’s steadying hand. “Jemma, we have a  _ baby _ . We’re parents—you and I.  _ Together _ .”

He moved closer, stepping cautiously and gently until he could drop a kiss to her forehead.

“Yes, Fitz, I know. I was there.” She grinned, amused.

“Right, sure, of course.” He leaned a cheek against her shoulder. “I don’t know if I told you, but you did great.”

“You did mention it. Several times.” Jemma watched as Fitz traced a finger over their son’s little nose.

“Good.”

“How was your trip to the pub with my dad?” She asked before looking over at her father. He already seemed soberer and she briefly wondered if his stumble had been an act.

“We were celebrating,” Fitz mumbled, sleepily. “As men do when they become fathers.”

“We had two pints and a shot of whisky,” Charlie piped up. “I stopped him from ordering a round for the pub.”

This time, Jemma couldn’t stifle her laugh. From the moment her father had met Fitz back when he was an awkward boy she’d brought home from school, he had immediately taken him under his protective wing. He’d known Fitz was important to Jemma and he’d treated him like a son, even then. Fresh tears sprang to her eyes, and she blinked them back, but not before her mother noticed.

“You alright, dear?” She had a knowing look in her eye.

“Just hormones.” Jemma wiped at her eyes. She hated using such an excuse, but at this moment, with her body recovering and embracing her new function, it wasn't a stretch.

“Well, you’ve got a perfect boy in your arms, my darling Jem.” Her father beamed and gave her a wink.

“I must say I agree,” she smiled and then lightly nudged a dozing Fitz. “Your mum said Henry looks just like you.”

“Hmm,” he murmured, smacking his lips, “a handsome chap, then. Right from the start.”

Helena scoffed. 

“Oh, no, you were so red with your little face scrunched up. Why, as soon as the doctor held you for me to see, you didn’t even cry—just cracked one eye open and glared.” She paused as Fitz leaned up to glare, squinting at even the dim light. “Yes, just like that.”

“Unbelieveable,” he groused without any real bite, “getting cheek from my own mother on the day of her grandson’s birth.”

Jemma chuckled and Fitz settled back down against her shoulder, his hand resting lightly on Henry’s bum.

When the nurse came around to check on the baby, the grandparents took the opportunity to slip out, promising to return in the morning. After making notes on the medical chart, the nurse placed Henry in the bassinet and left, leaving Jemma and Fitz alone with their son for the first time since his birth. She supposed she should find the situation overwhelming, but she was so perfectly content and just…  _ happy _ .

She pressed a kiss to her sleeping husband’s forehead, and Fitz only sighed and curled closer. Then, with the two most important men in her life within an arm’s reach, Jemma let the wave of affection soothe her to sleep.

  
  
  



	10. A Thousand Fingerprints

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jemma was eight months pregnant and Fitz was terrified. He’d done his best to swallow down his fear and anxiety, but as the due date grew closer, his worry only intensified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for hemnalini who asked for some Fitz and father-in-law bonding during Jemma's pregnancy.

“We can’t tell them tonight,” Fitz hurried into the kitchen as Jemma sat at the table, poring over a science journal and munching on a slice of toast. 

“Tell them what?” She asked, her mouth full as she licked a smear of jam from her thumb.

“That you’re, you know,” he sighed and waved his hands at her before dramatically whispering, “ _pregnant_.”

“You don’t want to tell our parents we’re having a baby?” She frowned at him. “We've waited the typical twelve weeks. In fact, it's officially fourteen weeks.”

“I think we should wait longer.” He tugged at his ear once before dropping his hand, remembering it was a dead giveaway he was nervous. “Or tell them over the phone.”

Eyes narrowed, she studied him as he continued to squirm. 

“Are you _afraid_ to tell our parents we're having a baby?”

“What?” He scoffed then shifted. “No.”

“You are! Fitz, not only are we into our thirties, we're also _married_.” 

“ _I know that_.” 

She let out a peal of laughter. “This is _too much_.”

“I've never been in this sort of situation before, Simmons.” 

“I should think not.” She turned the page, careful of her sticky fingers.

“I’m being ridiculous, aren’t I?”

“Only just a little.” 

“You're going to tell your parents all about this, too, aren't you?” He groaned, his mouth twisting in a grimace.

“Oh, most definitely.” Again, she let out a sharp giggle and he couldn’t help but smile, the sound so joyful.

xXx

While Fitz was well aware one of Charlie Simmons’ favorite hobbies involved teasing his son-in-law, at the moment he longed for the hardwood floors of the sitting room to crack open and swallow him whole. Or maybe some sort of Asgardian rift or something… Nothing terrible or permanent—just something to remove him from this current moment in time. 

The silence was too claustrophobic. He couldn’t take it.

He and Jemma had made their announcement after dinner with a tray of celebratory chocolate biscuits at the ready and a kettle set to boil. The biscuits had been Fitz’s idea—nothing like a bit of sugar to reset the nervous system from a shock. 

After the initial round of hugs and congratulations, Jemma and their mums had slipped off to discuss… well… whatever it was women discussed regarding pregnancy, leaving Fitz and his father-in-law with an awkward silence and mugs of milky tea.

“We planned it,” Fitz offered, breaking under the oppressive weight of Charlie’s glare from behind his mug.

“Planned it?” The older man spoke, eyebrow raised just as Jemma often did when he was about to say something incriminating. Fitz thought he heard a distant siren wail but then quickly shook his head. It was only his imagination, no doubt. Still, Charlie was speaking and Fitz took that as a good sign. 

With a nod and a grin, he continued, “Been trying for a few months. Jemma read all the books and journals. Made a timetable. Of course she did, loves her schedules, that one. Designed an app that I then built to clock peak ovulation, among other things. The whole thing was practically a science experiment—” 

“ _What?_ ”  


He drew up short when Charlie’s posture straightened. Quickly, he played back his remarks but before he could piece everything together, Jemma returned with their mothers gleefully gossiping behind her. 

“What are you men talking about?” She slipped next to him, perched on the arm of his chair, a hand on his shoulder.

“Oh, Fitz here was talking about how he thinks my grandchild is a science experiment.” Charlie bit into a biscuit just as all the women staggered to a stop, their gleeful chatter halting.

“ _What?_ ” Helena shouted as Meredith only rolled her eyes at her husband. 

“That's _not_ what I said—” Fitz struggled.

“Honestly, Charlie, stop giving the boy such a hard time. It’s a wonder he hasn’t climbed the rafters yet, with the way you were glaring.” 

Immediately, Charlie’s scowl evaporated and he grinned. 

“Hardly my fault. He makes it so easy.” With a wink, he crunched a biscuit, letting crumbs fly. “I’d love to see that ovulation app though, Fitz. No doubt you could sell it—but you’d need to add a few elements to make it really stand out in a saturated market.”

Fitz winced as Jemma’s gripped his arm. 

“You told my _father_ about _my ovulation app_?” 

He stifled a groan. Really, just a small little Asgardian rift to plop him fifteen minutes in the future—that’s all he needed.

xXx

Jemma was eight months pregnant and Fitz was terrified. He’d done his best to swallow down his fear and anxiety, but as the due date grew closer, his worry only intensified. 

Several nights in the past week alone, Fitz had suffered nightmares filled with his past demons, filled with images of his own father. A son was supposed to trust his father, to know that he would do anything in his power to protect him and keep him safe. Fitz didn’t know what that looked like and his stomach churned at the thought of failing his son, despite Jemma’s reassurances.

Last night, she’d placed the photograph of his mum on the wall next a photograph of her parents, all the while trying to talk him through his self-doubt. And for a moment, it had worked. But with the light of a new day, the worry and anxiety came crashing back down. 

And so, Fitz found himself pacing the length of the the back garden under the guise of tilling the land for a patch of rose bushes for Jemma. It had been nearly three hours but his mind still whirled while he dug and turned at the dirt. 

As Fitz dragged a sleeve against his sweaty brow, a large shadow suddenly blotted out the sun, a halo of light burst around the shape. 

“Jemma said you’d be out here. No doubt getting heat stroke.” Charlie Simmons spoke without preamble before thrusting a tumbler of ice water into Fitz’s grimy hand.

“What... uh, what brings you all the way up here?” 

He winced, hiding behind a long gulp of the offered water. It was hardly a polite question; Charlie and Meredith were welcome to drop by whenever they wanted, but the trip from Sheffield to Perthshire wasn’t exactly a quick jaunt and the couple usually gave advance notice.—Unless, their visit had slipped his mind in light of his preoccupation. 

“Ah, well,” Charlie shifted, hands now in his pockets, “Mere felt like a drive. Wanted to drop off some things for the baby, of course. They say it’s the mother-to-be that nests in the final weeks, but what they forget to mention is so do the grandmothers.” 

Fitz nodded in agreement. 

“My mum’s been over a fair amount, also. Always has a new load of supplies with her. We’re flush with boxes of nappies and knitted blankets.” 

It was Charlie’s turn to nod. Both men then stood silently, surveying the tilled ground for a few moments. 

“Uh, I thought it was time to plant the rose bushes Jemma’s always talked about,” Fitz offered, dimly. “She likes to sit on the swing and rock, and I figured once the baby is here, she’ll want to sit on the swing even more…”

Fitz wasn’t sure why he was floundering as Charlie watched him, patiently. 

“Jemma always did like spending time outside. She used to give her mother quite the scare, dragging random bugs and rodents into the house. Once, she stuck a jar of what can best be described as pond sludge in the refrigerator. The lid was loose… it spilled. I had to pry Meredith down from the ceiling.”

“Ah, yeah, been there myself,” Fitz chuckled. 

“The baby’ll be here before you know it, and then you'll make a load of new memories in this garden, there’s no doubt about it.” Charlie smiled but Fitz’s insides turned once more. 

“How… When Jemma was born how…” He tossed the handle of the shovel back and forth, but his loss for words belied his attempt at casualness. He took a deep breath. “How did you know you’d be good… at it?” 

His father-in-law paused for a moment, as if taking in the broad scope of Fitz’s question. He wished he’d been able to fully voice the depth of his concern. _How did you know you wouldn’t be a monster? How did you know you would love your child, unconditionally? How… How…_

But the older man only shrugged. 

“When you were a young lad,” Charlie started and Fitz flinched, momentarily worried about the direction the conversation was about to take. He wanted to discuss fatherhood, sure, but not _his_ father, in particular. “When you were a boy, how did you know that if you took your mother’s toaster oven apart, you could put it back together?” 

Fitz frowned, startled. This definitely wasn’t where he thought this was headed. 

“Uh, I just… did?” 

“But you practiced, right? And used your intuition, no doubt.” He hooked a thumb back up to the house. “And judging by the stories Jemma’s told us, it all paid off—you've built a fair amount of _larger_ contraptions.” Charlie smirked, well aware it was an understatement. 

Fitz only nodded, biting at his cheek as he processed the analogy. 

“...Are you saying the baby is a toaster oven?”

“No!” Charlie threw his head back and laughed, clapping his son-in-law on the shoulder. “Babies are more like tea kettles, at least for the first six months.” 

Fitz frowned, unsure exactly what that could mean. 

“But… they aren’t, are they? Babies aren’t toaster ovens, or tea kettles, or a fleet of quinjets, or… or…” He felt his panic rising to the surface but he couldn’t stall it. All of his worry flooded his system. “They aren’t tech. Tech is repairable. But…a baby. One wrong move, one cruel word can have a lasting impact. I never… I _never_ want my child to think I don’t love them, that I won’t do everything I can to protect them. They need to know they're _safe_ with me, with their father.” 

There. The words were out. He couldn’t look his father-in-law in the eye and was afraid of what the man thought of him, but the words were out. 

The silence grew thick and heavy. 

The older man placed a hand on Fitz’s shoulder and he flinched at the contact, involuntarily. Charlie paused, as if measuring his words.

“I… I’m pretty good at reading people, Fitz, and I’ve always known my daughter was safe with you, just as my grandchild will be. You protect the people you love. And while I don’t know specifics—I don’t need to—I think there are two things you need to hear.” 

Fitz tensed but Charlie leaned closer before continuing, “I’m proud of the man you’ve become. And you could never be like your father.”

The words were an absolution, sending immediate relief through his body as tears stung his eyes. Stunned, Fitz finally looked up. He was struck by the honesty and fatherly affection reflected back at him.

Charlie gave his shoulder another gentle squeeze before reaching for the nearest potted bush. 

“Well now, son, how about we finish planting these roses?” 

xXx

“Hold the baby, please.” Jemma hoisted a squirming Cecilia into Fitz’s outstretched arms before disappearing into the crowd of party guests. It was Henry’s birthday and there were a load of friends and family traipsing through the Fitz-Simmons’ back garden.

Cecilia looked up at her father with warm golden brown eyes that reminded him so much of her mother and Fitz studied her with awe. Then, she pressed her sticky hands to his cheeks and giggled as he tipped her back and twirled her around. 

Soon, the sight of her brothers dressed in a strange costume combo of pirates and scientists caught her eye and she wiggled out of his grasp to run after them. He watched as they slowed down their pace, letting their sister catch up with them. At one point, Henry even let her catch him, her chubby little arms wrapped around his waist.

Cecilia was delighted and Fitz was mesmerized by his children.

“So,” Charlie started, clapping him on the back. Fitz did his best to keep his feet rooted in place, arms folded over his chest. “Is fatherhood everything you thought it would be?”

Fitz glanced over at his wife as she spread vanilla icing on cupcakes, her shoulders shaking in laughter before she handed each one over to his mother for a coat of sprinkles. Behind her, their three children whooped and gave chase—the boys being gentle and mindful of their little sister. Soon, they bounded back across the garden, past the patch of rose bushes, right to Fitz.

His heart was so full. 

“No, not in the least,” Fitz admitted, unable to bite back his grin as Henry and Ethan tangled between his legs. “It’s so much better.” 

“Ahhh!” A dramatic Henry pretended to cower behind him, seeking refuge from some imaginary danger—or perhaps his sister. “Protect us, Daddy!” 

Scooping a squawking Cecilia up in one arm, Fitz reached down for his sons. He ruffled his fingers through Ethan’s hair before giving Henry’s small shoulder an affectionate squeeze, their little faces turned up to him, so open with trust and love.

“Always.” 

The stillness was quickly broken by a squeal of laughter as the three Fitz-Simmons children and their father tumbled and played in the back garden of a cottage in Perthshire.


	11. A Lad's Lunch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz cannot _believe_ Jemma kicked him out!! —For the afternoon. Luckily, Hunter's free and at the pub.
> 
> Written for the "Fitz and Hunter get beers" prompt for Team Engineering's The Fitz Wish List.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by one of the best episodes of television: Spaced, 2x05: "Gone." Seriously. Watch it! (Watch all of Spaced, honestly.)
> 
> Thank you to dilkirani for the beta and for answering "what would Fitz sing at karaoke?"

 

**_A Pub Somewhere in the UK_ **

**_2:00 PM_ **

“Jemma’s kicked me out,” Fitz sulked, sliding onto the pub stool next to Hunter.

“What!?” his friend stared, gobsmacked and with a Guinness mustache. “I knew it! Women are fickle, the whole lot of ‘em. It’s fine. Only a matter of time before Bobbi chucks me out again. We can get a flat—a lad’s flat! And just play videogames and drink beer and—”

Fitz paused in flagging down the bartender to look at Hunter, his mouth agape at the other man’s readiness to abandon his current life on a whim. 

“For the _afternoon_. She’s kicked me out for the _afternoon_. Said I was hovering too much.”

“Right, that makes more sense.” Hunter nodded thanks as fresh pints were set in front of them both.

“Glad to see you thought I was straight up abandoning my _pregnant_ wife. Cheers.” Fitz tisked before downing a gulp of Guinness and Hunter could only throw his hands up in exasperation. 

“You said she kicked you out! How was I to know you were being  _dramatic_ ?” 

“She needed a break. Can you believe that? A break. From _me_.”

“Shocker.” 

“She’s due _any_ day now but my being under foot has somehow frustrated her more than—and I quote—‘growing a nine pound bowling ball for the better part of a year.’” 

“Bit on edge, then, eh?”

“It’s our first baby, you know? I just… her back hurts all the time. Her ankles are swollen to the size of turnips, and she whinges about climbing up the stairs.” 

“Really selling this baby thing, Fitz.” 

“But it’s beautiful, too. When she’s not all cross and blotchy, she’s glowing and lovely.” Fitz downed the shot that suddenly appeared in front of him. “The miracle of life, Hunter. It’s stunning.” 

“I’ll just take your word for it, mate.” 

  


**_3:00 PM_ **

They slammed shot glasses down, the whisky barely burning as it slid down their throats. 

“I can _not_ believe Jemma kicked me out. My birthday’s tomorrow! We should be spending this weekend together.” Fitz waved a hand about, nearly sloshing his beer. He’d had several pints along with the shots and it was beginning to show. “The last vestige of quiet before the baby.” 

“Starting to see why the wife gave you the boot. All this yammering.” Hunter gestured wildly but Fitz grew somber, staring into his beer. Grabbing him by the shoulder, Hunter gave him a shake. “Aww, I’m only teasing. Didn’t take you for a sad drunk.” 

Blinking rapidly, Fitz only responded with a heavy sigh before, “Do you think I’ll be a good dad?”

“What?” Hunter leaned closer, arm still around Fitz’s shoulders. 

“Do you think I’ll be a good dad?” The words tangled on his drunk tongue.

“I heard you the first time. I’m just shocked you had to ask.”

“Is that a yes?” Fitz leaned his chin on the rim of his pint glass. “You’re confident I can keep an infant alive?”

“You’ve loads of experience keeping _me_ alive.” Hunter gave him a playful one-arm hug that was more of a squeeze.

“Yeah, that is true.” 

“That’s the spirit!” He waved down the bartender. “Another round!”

“Oh! There's karaoke sign-ups for later today.” Fitz held up a nearby flier, his dour mood immediately forgotten. 

“I've heard you sing. I can't in good faith unleash that warble on the unsuspecting public. You and your love for 90s alt-rock.”

“It was a revolutionary time in music,” Fitz scoffed.

“Drink your shot.”

  


**_6:00 PM_ **

Fitz stood on the pub’s small stage, microphone stand gripped in both hands, having slipped into the karaoke rotation while Hunter went to the loo. 

It was still early in the day for a singing competition, but Fitz had an urge to join in and the ten other day-drunk patrons were too in their cups to care.

“This song is _not_ dedicated to my wife, the love of my life. She’s beautiful and… carrying our child… we’re very happy. I just really like this song, OK? Anyway, here’s Alanis Morissette's ‘You Oughta—”

“— _No_.” Hunter bounded on stage, yanking the microphone away before dragging him off.

The other patrons barely blinked. 

  


**_7:00 PM_ **

“Jemma!” Fitz staggered into the entryway of the cottage, half slung over Hunter’s shoulder. “I have returned!”

“Oh, that was right in my ear, that was.” Hunter winced before dropping him to the nearest soft surface, an overstuffed reading chair. 

“Why does the house smell weird?” Fitz sniffed the air. “Spicy. Am I having a… wait, no, that’s not a symptom of anything.”

Jemma rounded the corner, her pregnant belly entering the room before the rest of her. 

“Are you _drunk_ ?” She watched as Fitz slid further into the cushions, eyes wide in astonishment. 

“Yes, maybe. Definitely. But in my defense, you knew I was meeting up with Hunter. What else were we gonna do?”

“Hey!” Hunter held up his hands in mock offense. “But he is right, love. It was the pub or the firing range.” 

“Oh, yes, well, I should thank you for being the responsible one and not combining both activities, then, I take it?”

“I’m sensing sarcasm, but…” Hunter stopped when Jemma only glared and pulled at the sleeves of her oversized cardigan before crossing her arms.

“Jemma! Jemma!” Fitz called out from the chair, his head apparently too heavy to lift from his chest. “Tomorrow is my birthday!”

“Yes, I know.” 

“Tomorrow.” His head lulled to the side to look at her. “Tomorrow is gonna suck.” 

“Oh, that’s nearly certain. You’ll have a massive hangover, no doubt.” 

“This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t kicked me out,” he mumbled, half-heartedly.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” she shouted, not caring if the pitch hurt his ears. “Yes, fine, I kicked you out, but do you know why? _Tomorrow is your birthday_.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.” Fitz blinked, bleary-eyed. 

“No, you daft drunkard. Tomorrow is your birthday and I wanted to bake you a cake! But I couldn’t rightly do that with you following me around the house, waiting on my waters to burst, now could I?”

“Oh.” He bounced his knee. 

“Yes. _Oh_.”

There was a brief moment of silence but then Fitz chanced a glance at his wife. “What kind of cake?”

“Sticky ginger.” She was starting to soften to him, his disheveled and sheepish state reminding her of the boy she met at the Academy in a different lifetime.

“I love sticky ginger cake.” 

“I know.” 

From over Jemma’s shoulder, Hunter raised a hand. “I quite like sticky ginger cake, too.” 

“You’re not getting any.” She cut him off with a look and he took several cautious steps back. 

“Right, well. My work here is done.” Hunter gave a half-hearted salute before heading for the door and calling out to Fitz. “Happy birthday, mate!”

Fitz could only groan in response.

**Author's Note:**

> _Right as rain, soft as snow,_   
>  _It grows and grows and grows,_   
>  _Our home sweet home._
> 
> _We'll try to document this light,_   
>  _With cameras to our eyes,_   
>  _In an effort to remember_   
>  _What being mended feels like._
> 
> _We're home sweet home._
> 
> ("From the Ground Up" by Sleeping at Last)


End file.
